


Transposed

by MS_Christie



Series: The Eternal Cycle [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dancing, Gen, Inspired by The Lord of the Rings, Reborn - Freeform, Reincarnation, Singing, Songs, Time Travel, Transmigration, of a sort, repeated reincarnation, stories, storyteller - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28737687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MS_Christie/pseuds/MS_Christie
Summary: She had only heard of the world in passing. Never did she imagine she'd awaken there after death.But seeing as she was well-educated and most in her new world weren't, she decided to use what knowledge she had to change the world.(She never expected her small ripples to make such a large change in tide.)[Part of the Eternal Cycle Series]
Series: The Eternal Cycle [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2106864
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

From Death, Life be found,  
When in moonlight prayers sound,  
In snow and storm,  
In vulnerable form,  
Will the spirit of love be given.

From a peripatetic pair will a child be reborn,  
To bless the world in the name,  
Of the One,  
Who sung life into their lungs,  
And in whose eyes they hold favour.

A messenger will this child be,  
They will proclaim the word of the One,  
And for the One this child will live and breath,  
Singing their song from above.

This prophet will teach with the same tongue,  
Both Common and King alike,  
And sing songs of love from earthly soul,  
And mend woeful strife.

Then this child will die again,  
And the One shall bring his wrath,  
The earth will shake,  
The sky will scream,  
And know the One's great might.

(And then she shall be born again in a world far, far away. She'll live and die once more. While the One watches day to day, waiting always until she is reborn.

For she is his most treasured daughter.

She is the spirit of love.)


	2. Chapter 2

(Life # ???)

( ˘ ³˘) ♫

She is (re)born in the midwinter on the coldest eve of the year, beneath a vast sea of stars that shine brightly with the moonlight, in a petite caravan frosted by ice and snow near the edge of a small village. She is frail and weak, sick in a way that makes her parents fear for her life. She is born with lips tinged with blue and a pale, fragile, complexion. They worry that the chilling wind will steal the warmth from her cheeks along with what little there is of her quiet breath.

It is cold. Too cold.

She is born to die.

Her death is inevitable.

Even still, she fights for her life.

The village has seen many hardships this winter and their hearts have been hardened. They are in no condition to be giving nor do they feel like it either. The spirit of Generosity is absent. And with it, the spirit of Hope. There is little food and no warmth except for that of her mother's flesh and breast milk. And even then, there is not enough.

Despair is overwhelming.

She weakens quickly and her parents desperately plead and beg for her to be saved.

Her mother sings prayers to the One in a language that she cannot understand. Her mother's voice is rough and coarse from the soreness of praying all day and night but she doesn't stop.

She cannot understand anything her mother sings but hears the same mantra being repeated over and over again in a desperate but beautiful melody.

"Eru..." her mother chants repeatedly, steadily, in a rhythm that lulls.

The word contains a sort of power in it, an authority that her parents respect and fear. An authority they desperately believe can save her life.

"Eru..." her father joins in praying when her mother's voice begins to crack and fail.

She fights on for three days.

Her parents pray the entire time.

On the eve of the third day her breathing evens and colour gradually returns to her cheeks. A comforting warmth surges through her body and gives her strength to persevere.

Their voices were heard by the One.

It is by Eru's grace she lives.

(She lives again.)

( ˘ ³˘) ♫

She grows up with the echo of another childhood lingering in memories hidden within memory.

Her name is Anya.

She remembers ethnicities and places   
that do not exist in this world and wonders whether it is because they do not yet exist or will not exist at all.

Anya means Power and Strength in Kurdish, Rhythm and Melody in Berber languages, and Resurrection in Greek and Hebrew.

She finds it amusing how her parents do not understand the full meaning of the name they have given her.

The irony astounds her.

The language used by her parents is called Westron.

It isn't English, but like English it is known and used everywhere.

Her soul is displaced across time and space, though she knows not how far. She is in a land that had similarities but also distinct differences from her own.

It feels like the past.

But she thinks it might be a different past entirely.

(She couldn't be more right.)

( ˘ ³˘) ♫

Her parents are nomadic people, and as such they aren't easily trusted. Disapproval and skepticism follow them wherever they wander along with suspicious whispers and glances.

Mater is a musician.

Pater is a storyteller.

But they make most of their income by trading goods acquired during their travels as self-proclaimed merchants.

They are very much like what the term Gypsy of her world describes.

Exotic and mysterious even to her.

They settle for about five years and wait for her to age before travelling again. By then, she has learned Westron and has become accustomed to the ways of the world.

Mater begins to teach her how to dance with long flowing scarves and sing melodies that enchant and charm.

Pater begins to teach her how to cleverly weave tales and convincing lies using strands of the truth.

In return she loves them and gives them all she can.

She teaches them the only things she knows.

She teaches them English.

She tells them stories.

She does everything to preserve a culture that doesn't exist, before it can exist, (if it ever does).

Anya laments the loss of her world and does everything she can to keep it alive.

She is only six years of age now and there is only so much she can do with a cute smile and big bright round eyes.

Parchment is expensive and she fears forgetting so she learns how to sing better than even the birds who rise with the sun.

She learns to tell stories and preserve them through time.

She forgets...

(But she doesn't forget everything.)

[One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them,   
One ring to bring them all   
And in the darkness bind them.]

( ˘ ³˘) ♫

"Long ago, in a land of magic and spirits, forgotten by all but time itself, there lived four nations of water, earth, fire, and air. For thousands of years the four nations lived together in harmony and balance..."

She danced with scarves of different colours; blue for water, green for earth, red for fire, and white for air.

Her audience was entranced by her dance, delight evident in the sparkling of their eyes and the way they gasped and cheered whenever she did some sort of flourishing movement.

"But everything changed when the fire nation broke peace," She threw three of the four scarves into the air and watched as blue, green and white drifted to the ground. She spun around and surrounded herself in the red cloth then fell gracefully, picked up each scarf, and stood up with a swirl of colour.

"Solely the Avatar, the master of all four elements, guardian of balance and the bridge between the mortal and spirit realms could stop their tyranny."

She threw the white scarf into the air and caught it.

Anya glanced up out of the corner of her eye and saw three hooded strangers standing in the back of the crowd.

She kept an eye on them as she continued to dance.

"And yet when the world needed him most... he vanished."

She wrapped herself in scarves, then threw them into the air so that she could disappear behind a thin screen and shed her red dress for a blue one.

Mater began to play her flute.

A series of high soaring notes sounded in the wind which caught in her skirt and scarves of many colours as the screen collapsed.

"In his absence the Air Nomads were slaughtered by the forces of the Fire Nation."

Red enveloped white and white fell to the ground.

"Their monastery homes burned to ashes and ashes they remained, abandoned! The people of the air were lost forever!"

She twirled the red scarf.

"All was lost without the fourth element, the balance disrupted for good..." she said softly, then paused. "Or was it?"

She picked up the white scarf.

Blue swirled with white.

"A hundred years passed and a girl from the Southern Tribe of Water found a boy trapped in an ice crystal with her brother."

Pater unveiled a tapestry depicting a young boy with a blue arrow tattoo and his sky bison companion frozen in time.

"This child... was the Avatar."

Silence.

She could feel the tension in her spectators, hear their bated breath, and see the impatience etched into their faces.

They wanted to know what came next.

They needed to know what came next.

Gotcha, she thought as Pater winked at her.

Anya smiled cheekily in return and curtsied to the village folk.

"We shall continue the tale next time, my dearest comrades."

There was a collective groan.

"You said that last time!"

"Don't leave us hanging, lass!"

"Not again!"

Anya smiled apologetically.

"Forgive me, maybe next time." She told them as she folded her scarfs, tucking them underneath her arm. "A reminder to all that our Caravan of Wonders is open for business and are stocked to the brim with exotic items from all over the land!"

Pater cleared his throat. "Yes, indeed, we have a grand selection of wares, and lovely tapestries from the kingdoms of Gondor and Rohan and the ports of the eastern sea."

The crowd murmured, some departing now that the performance was over while others stayed to browse and haggle the prices of the merchandise.

Anya took this moment to slip away through the crowd, unnoticed by all except the three hooded strangers.

( ˘ ³˘) ♫

"You spin great stories, youngling."

She stared warily at the three cloaked strangers, stepping back as they took a tentative step towards her.

"Halt! Speak your names, oh flatterers of Storysmiths, oh shrouded veiled strangers!" Anya demanded, eyes darting around for possible routes of escape. "I seek with you no quarrel! So why do you hunt me so?"

"Peace, oh child of dramatics. We bear you no ill will." The first stranger said as the second nodded in agreement; their eyes smiling as they regarded her with good-natured gentleness and patience.

"We come only with questions and curiosity."

They lowered their hoods and revealed their long flowing hair, fair complexion, pointed ears and unworldly beauty.

"By the Valar!" Anya exclaimed with wide eyes. "For what reason would Children of Illúvatar appear before me?"

The three elves exchanged a glance that could only convey the amusement felt by her bemused awe.

"Commanded by our inquiring Lord, we sought the source of the mortal men's praise." The third elf, whom she believed to be the youngest of the three, said. "Even elven ears hear tales of a wandering bard. Though there was no mention that this bard was but a youngling. And a wise one at that..."

"I'm ten winters old." Anya said defensively though her soul was far older. "And not all wisdom is derived from age."

Wisdom is found in experience.

"Indeed."

Anya cleared her throat, examining each of the elven messengers carefully before voicing one of her many growing questions.

"What does your Great Elven-Lord want with this lowly gypsy-girl?" She furrowed her brows.

"He invites you to do what you do best." The elf said warmly. "He invites you to tell a story in his household."

"What an honour, I suppose that is." Anya tilted her head thoughtfully. "But what story might this lowly girl tell that would be fit for a Lord?"

"A tale told from the heart." The first elf supposed gently. "Like each story that you weave and the care put into every word as you spin and weave it into existence like magic."

"It is said that you bring these stories to life, youngling."

She frowned without displeasure, her expression furrowing with a sort of intense pondering.

"Each story I tell is a treasured memory or dream of mine. And I," she said carefully, "would be honoured to tell my tales to anyone patient enough to bear with me... in the hopes that one day my stories might be known by all and remembered for eternity."

"Than what better fashion to immortalize your dreams then by passing them on to an immortal?" The second elf said.

"None," she said for she couldn't quite think of a better way than that.

She smiled.

"None."

( ˘ ³˘) ♫

The bustling crowd which was that morning was no longer by the time she returned to the caravan alongside the three elves of Imladris.

"Pater!" She greeted, the man halting as he eyed his daughter's companions curiously.

"Anya," he said before abruptly switching to English. "Why are you followed by three elves?"

She replied quickly, almost too eagerly, she loved speaking in English. "They want us to travel to Imladris so I can tell their Lord Elrond stories!"

The elves shifted at the foreign language, brief recognition filling them at the mention of their Lord's name.

Pater's eyes became round and filled with surprise.

"You wish for my daughter to tell stories to your Lord?" He demanded in disbelief.

"Oh beloved Pater, teacher of my craft, cunning silvertongue, the greatest of all word weavers, please let me go!" Anya pleaded then turned to her Mater who was summoned by the sound of her pleading. "Oh gentle Mater, keeper of my heart, the most charming of dancers, master maker of music, make your husband agree!"

One of the elves looked as though they were about to burst into laughter at the expression on Pater's face.

Her parents exchanged a long thoughtful look, communicating their thoughts with only small quirks of the eyebrow and meaningful glares.

"Very well."

Anya cheered, dancing in joy and kissing her Pater on the cheek.

To Imladris, they'd go.


	3. Chapter 3

"There once was a man with two sons," she began, her voice soft but with clear enunciation as she recited these verses, "he was a wealthy man of great prestige."

She stood in the house of Lord Elrond, her voice carrying to the ears of Elrond himself. She stood before them with an air of dignity belonging to a maiden far beyond her years.

The wisdom found in her eyes didn't belong to that of a child. The elven Lord regarded her thoughtfully, with a sort of curiosity at the maturity in her eyes.

How interesting, he said to himself, intrigued.

Her parents stood anxiously to the side, hands clasped together as they watched her with eyes like a hawk. Both trembled in what could be called eager nervousness for they had never performed in the presence of one so respected as the Lord Elrond.

"One day the youngest son came to his father and said unto him," there she made herself sound cocky and arrogant, puffing up her chest. "'Father mine! Give me my share of the inheritance!'"

Her parents gaped for they had never heard this story before as the crowd murmured at the disrespect of the youngest son.

The audacity!

How dare the son say such things to his own father!

It was scandalous.

("Father," the son said in essence, "hurry up and die so I might have my inheritance!")

Anya continued through the murmuring crowd, "the father agreed, and gave his youngest son his share of the inheritance."

"Oh, Anya!" Her mater whispered in despair, eyes darting to and from the Lord Elrond, "What are you doing?"

"No sooner had he received his share, the youngest son left his father's house," she said matter-of-factly, "he travelled to the city where he spent everything in the presence of foolish and the promiscuous. He befriended those who knew no loyalty or honour and squandered everything he had until he had nothing left."

Panic seized her pater's expression and warning filled his eyes. His face practically screamed: why tell you such stories in the presence of the elven lord?!

Anya ignored him to his dismay.

"He became impoverished and in his poverty he found himself starving and working in the pigsty," she continued despite her parents' pained groans of panic and exasperation, "he found himself envying the scrapes of the swine!"

"Anya, what are you doing!" Her pater hissed in English.

"And then the youngest son remembered, 'in my father's household the food is plenty and bountiful, even the servants are well-fed!'" Anya said loudly, speaking over her pater's protests to Elrond's amusement. "He devised a plan. He'd return to his father and beg for him to take him back... not as a son, but as a hired hand. He was filled with great remorse for his slight against his father and repented."

She smiled softly, her eyes filled with wistful nostalgia.

"Unknown to the youngest son, his father had waited everyday for his return and prayed to the One to bring his son home. Upon seeing his son in the distance the father ran to him, tears of joy in his eyes as he shouted: 'my son has return! My son is home!'"

Her voice rose in excitement, matching the joy felt by the father but then lowered to suit the son's tone of repentance as she continued her tale.

"The son fell to his knees and said: 'father—-no, my lord, forgive me for I have sinned against you. I beg of you to take me as your servant.' But the father is would not let him speak, he embraced his son and ordered the servants: 'Run clean water for my son, bring him shoes, clothe him in my best robe and bring him a ring for he is home! He is home!' The father then ordered his household to kill their best cow and prepare a banquet in honour of his son's return. For he who was lost was now found and redeemed!"

Anya's voice steadied.

"But the eldest son had been working hard in the fields that night," she said after a pause, "he returned to a household rushing to prepare a banquet and grew angered once he learned of his brother's return. He refused to enter the house. And when his father came to him, he demanded: 'why celebrate you the return of the blight of our house? The stain on our family tapestry? The fool who ran away? I have worked honesty for all my life and have obeyed you always, father. I have never strayed nor have I ever disobeyed you... And you have never once thrown a banquet in my honour!"

Anya tried to sound resentful and confuse. Then, she softened her voice soothingly.

"'Peace, my son.' Said the father to his heir, 'for all that I have is yours. But now is not the time for bitterness. My son, your brother, who was lost to us has been found! He was dead but now he is alive! He is redeemed. We must celebrate! You have never been lost and for that I am grateful. But your brother has... and he's returned to us! It is a miracle!'"

Her audience was silent, breath bated as they leaned in towards her, awaiting her next verse.

"The father then asked his eldest son to join the banquet."

She finished with three words.

"And he replied."

Gripping her skirts, she curtsied cheekily to the Lord Elrond.

"Thus ends the tale of the Prodigal Son."

She peeked up at Elrond and was pleased to see that he was smiling.

"There is wisdom in your eyes," he said to her as he rose from his throne and stepped towards her.

"I have an old soul," she quipped then dipped her head, "for inviting me here to share my stories I can't say nothing but a sincere and heartfelt hannon le."

"You speak Sindarin?" Elrond quirked a fine eyebrow.

Anya giggled slightly.

"Terribly," she answered, "I only know what I've heard across my travels... which I confess is not much."

"How old are you?" He asked her.

"Ten cycles," Anya replied with a childish grin.

"And you wrote this story yourself?"

She shook her head.

"T'was a wise man in my dreams that told me this story."

"A wise man in your dreams," Elrond echoed, nodding in thoughtful approval, "a wise man indeed."

"Come," he said after a moment, "dine with me tonight."

Sending a cheeky grin to her parents Anya winked.

I know well my craft, she thought to herself, they had no need for worry.

Still, she considered that there were many stories to be told in order to preserve the land of her memories...

She eagerly looked forwards to sharing another tale with the Lord Elrond.

( ˘ ³˘) ♫

She was well fed that night and her family well cared for. Truly, being guests in the Lord Elrond's household was a great honour.

But above all that she gained something very valuable...

She gained her parents' faith.

Not all could tell such a tale in front of a Lord and gain their favour.

But Anya did.

She was truly a blessing to her parents.

(And a blessing to this world)


End file.
